We shudder at the silence dread, That renders no reply-- O, dust! from whence the soul hath fled, Thou canst not hear our cry. The violet, o’er their mouldering clay, Looks meekly from the sod, But tells not of the hidden way Their angel feet have trod. Where are they, Death? thou mighty one! To some far land unknown, Beyond the stars, beyond the sun, Have their bright spirits flown? Their hearts were strong through Truth and Right, Life’s stormy tide to stem. O Death! thou conqueror of might! What need hadst thou of them? The earth is green with martyrs’ graves, On hill, and plain, and shore, And the great ocean’s sounding waves Sweep over thousands more. For us they drained life’s bitter cup, And dared the battle strife; Where are they, Death? O, render up The secret of their life! We listen--to our earnest cries No answer is made known, Save the “Resurgam”--I _shall_ rise! Carved on the burial stone. O Grave! O Death! thou canst not keep The spark of Life Divine; They have no need of rest or sleep; Nay, Death, they are not thine! Where are they? O Creative Soul! To whom no name is given, Whose presence fills the boundless whole, Whose love alone is heaven, Through all the long, eternal hours What toils do they pursue? Are their great souls still linked with ours, To suffer and to do? Lo! how the viewless air around With quickening life is stirred, And from the silences profound Leaps forth the answering word, “We live--not in some distant sphere Life’s mission to fulfill; But, joined with faithful spirits here, We love and labor still. No laurel wreath, no waving palm, No royal robes are ours, But evermore, serene and calm, We use life’s noblest powers. Toil on in hope, and bravely bear The burdens of your lot; Great, earnest souls your labors share; They will forsake you not.” MR. DE SPLAE. IT may seem a strange question, good people, but say, Did you never hear tell of one Mr. De Splae? A man who made up for the lack of good sense By a wondrous amount of mere show and pretense; Puffed up with conceit like an airy balloon, He was hard to approach as the “man in the moon,” Save when for some _purpose_ it came in his way, And then, O how gracious was Mr. De Splae! A sly politician, a popular man, When all things went smoothly he marshaled the van; But when there was aught like a failure to fear, He quickly deserted or fell to the rear. His speech for the people went “gayly and glib,” While he drew his support from the National crib; But when an assessment or tax was to pay, O, how outraged and angry was Mr. De Splae!